


Brainstorm

by futureboy



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bodyswap, Bonnie Tyler, First Kiss, Innuendo, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Plans, References to Canon, Sharing a Bed, Supernatural Elements, Teenage Losers Club (IT), Teenagers, The House on 28 Neibolt Street (IT), Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 16:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21140051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureboy/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: “Know what’s weird? Having a different ass.”“For g-god’s sake, man,” says Bill.[Bodyswap!AU. Richie and Eddie wake up as each other - and now they have to figure out how to switch back. With the help of the other Losers, of course.]





	Brainstorm

**Author's Note:**

> Beth and Devan read this over, and to them I am eternally grateful. I love you guys omg.

“I really don’t know why you’re freaking out so much,” says Richie flippantly. “Weird shit happens in Derry all the time.”

“The real question,” says Stan, “is why you _ aren’t _ freaking out! You’re insane, Rich!”

“I’m not insane. I’m just so freaked I’m _ calm_, my dearest Stanley. And that’s why I always win the high-stakes two player matches at the arcade.”

It’s been a weird day.

And Eddie snaps like an elastic band.

“_Calm?!”_ he shrieks. “How can you be _ calm_, Richie?! This isn’t natural, this is fucked up beyond belief-- Bill, _ tell _ him--”

“It _ is _ fucking bizarro,” Bill says quietly.

Eddie throws his arms towards an answer he’s finally satisfied with. “You see? You _ see?! _ I thought this was all fucking over three years ago, but _ no_, shit’s gotta rise up from the depths all over again. Of all the bodies I could have been swapped with, I get the one with the worst hygiene!”

“Are you more concerned about being in Richie’s body and having it be gross?” Mike asks, genuinely interested, “or are you worried about Richie being in your clean body?”

“Oh, fuck, now I’m worried about _ both_.”

Yeah. It’s been a _ super _ weird day.

It had started as soon as Eddie had woken up, tangled in faded Batman sheets that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. His first thought had been _ ew_. His second thought had been _ holy fuck, I can’t see, the world is blurry and it’s entirely possible that I’ve woken up just in time for my death_.

His third thought had been _ Jesus fuck, my hair is long. _

It takes a few minutes of confused scrabbling to find the specs on the bedside table, to find himself in Richie’s crystal clear, hi-definition room, and to find his own reflection in the shitty mirror that Richie uses to squeeze pimples.

It’s Richie’s face.

It’s Richie’s fucking face.

Eddie says _ ‘aaaaaaaahhh!!!!!!’ _ very quietly under his breath - he’s majorly losing it, but he’d rather no-one heard him doing so - and Richie’s face pulls the exact same expression.

Fuck.

Oh, shit, oh fuck.

“You’re up early,” Richie’s mom remarks, as Eddie fails to sneak out of the house and past the kitchen without being noticed. He’s still pulling on a sneaker, and he comes to a hopping stop.

“Christmas miracle,” he says hoarsely.

It seems to be the correct response - or, at least, one that Richie would be likely to come out with. “Even your father’s still in bed. Off somewhere today?”

“Yeah, I have to go find R--Eddie,” he stammers. “It’s important--”

Maggie Tozier is a gentle woman who doesn’t put up with Richie’s stronger brand of bullshit, and Eddie respects the hell out of her. The Losers adore her; it’s not often they get to see Trashmouth put in his place by his own mother, so they enjoy her company whenever they can at his house.

Eddie also kind of wishes that she wasn’t making such a friendly effort right now.

“Ah,” she says sagely, and flips open the morning paper. “The arcade. I didn’t know you still had any savings left, honey.”

The retort throws him out of his panic for a moment, because it’s a plain old truth.

“Yeah, well,” he grouses, “Eddie’s been paying a _ lot _lately.”

She snorts. “Don’t forget to pay him back, baby. And it’s Saturday, he’s welcome to stay over if his mom will let him--”

“I’ll ask, but don’t hold out hope. Eddie basically lives in a sterile prison.”

Huh. Being Richie had its perks - he can basically say whatever he wants, because everyone already expects him to. Pretty neat.

“I’ll leave spare sheets out anyway, okay? Be back by six if you two want dinner, as well,” Maggie says.

She’s not looking at him, which is probably for the best. Eddie’s overcome with a sudden stab of affection for her generosity. “Thanks, Mrs Tozier,” he says, in Richie’s scratchy voice, “that’s really nice of you.”

Ah, fuck.

Ah, _ fuck_, he screwed it all up at the last minute. _ Mrs Tozier? _ Richie’s glasses start sliding down his nose, and he props them back up with his thumb. Gross. Richie’s body is so much _ sweatier _than his own one.

But, as luck would have it - Maggie doesn’t give a rat’s ass. It’s business as usual in the Tozier household. “Just ‘Mom’ will do,” she says, and returns to an article about a meteor shower.

Eddie gets the fuck out of dodge.

It’s pure hope that gets him through the ride to his own house - both for Richie’s dangerous-ass rattling bicycle, and for Richie not having given his mother conniptions on Eddie’s behalf. Jesus, he hopes Tozier is behaving himself in Eddie’s body, because Eddie’s losing his goddamned mind trying to cope with this unexpected trade.

Throwing stones at his own room at nine in the morning? Wasn’t on his to-do list.

Eventually, his own bedhead pokes out of the window. “Aw, _ fuck_,” Richie says, in Eddie’s voice, “this is another clown thing, isn’t it? Can I get a rain check on seeing my own body covered in maggots and shit? Thanks.”

“Trashmouth, if you even think about closing that window then I’m gonna go downtown and moon everyone in sight. In _ your _ body. Is that what you want?”

Richie stills, his arm still halfway outside. “It _ would _ be kinda cool,” he admits. “That you, Eds?”

“Who else, dipshit? You’re in my body and in my _ house_. And you’ve ruined my sleeping pattern, so thanks a lot--”

“I wondered why I had an eight AM alarm,” Richie says in wonder, already moving to climb out onto the roof. “May have broken that. Sorry, dude.”

Eddie pushes his glasses back onto his face with his thumb. “What the fuck are you doing? Can you at least get me _ dressed _ first, before you decide to throw me from the first floor?”

Richie stills for a second time in the window frame, one leg dangling precariously. Eddie went to bed in bright red socks last night. Against the panelling of his house, it looks like a distress signal. “Wait,” he says. “Did you dress me?”

Eddie blinks. “Of course I did. I wasn’t gonna leave your house in your pyjamas.”

“But, like, did you shower or whatever?”

“Gross, dude, I didn’t, like, strip you off for an examination,” says Eddie, feeling his face furiously flush. “Some of us have a little consideration for one another, y’know? I closed my eyes and threw on your clothes from yesterday, I’m not exactly desperate to stare at your dick.”

“It’s a good one. I promise.”

“Richie, just get me dressed and get down here. I laid out my clothes yesterday, they’re on the dresser.”

Richie finally recedes into Eddie’s room like a hermit crab. “_Laid out my clothes yesterday! They’re on the dresser!”_ he mimics, and it’s fucking infuriating to see his own face poking fun at him. Eddie’s blood is _ boiling_.

They end up calling an emergency clubhouse meeting. Eddie rides on Richie’s bike out of spite, instead of trading like Richie had suggested - although he’d rather be riding his own, it’s infinitely more satisfying to see Richie struggle to steer it with his newfound height change.

And that’s about where they are now.

Everyone had had their own reactions: Ben had asked them if they could prove it. Richie, in Eddie’s body, had picked up a week-old Skittle from the dusty clubhouse floor and popped it into his mouth with a _ crunch_; Eddie, in Richie’s body, audibly gagged four times in succession. Bev had laughed herself to tears.

Eddie’s grateful that Bill had been distinctly wary, and even more grateful that Stan had been downright _ unnerved_.

Now they’re here - trying to figure out why, how, and if they can go back.

“I don’t like the sound of _ if_,” says Stan.

Eddie’s inclined to agree.

“What happens if you gotta pee?” asks Bev, leaning forwards on her elbows. “Like, you’re just gonna have to grin and bear it, I guess, but that still sucks.”

Richie’s lounging Eddie’s body in the hammock and picking at Eddie’s fingernails. _ Fucker_. “I’m not embarrassed,” he remarks, swinging from left to right without a care in the world.

“I’m fucking embarrassed!” Eddie shrieks, and starts to list off on his fingers: “rule one - don’t look when you piss. Rule two - keep the lights off when you shower. Rule three - remember to shower. Rule four--”

“Eddie, you’re w-working yourself up,” Bill says.

It instantly invokes his wrath. “_Working myself up? _ What, I’m straining myself too hard? I’m not exactly gonna drop dead of sheer delight here, Big Bill,” he sneers, “so fuck off and stop doing your best impression of my mom.” 

He rounds it off with a double bird, jabbed sharply in Bill’s direction.

It's a _ very _ Tozier-esque outburst.

Everyone stares.

“That,” Mike says carefully, “was kinda scary.”

“Yeah, you’ve got me down to a T, Eds! Who’d’ve thunk it?”

Eddie sinks to the floor and puts his face in his hands. “Oh my god,” he says, muffled against Richie’s palms, “I am working myself up, I’m so fucking sorry, Bill. Maybe I’m just destined to gradually become Richie until there’s nothing left of me anymore.”

“Jesus, Eddie--”

“Yeah, man, don’t say things like that. We’ll find a way.”

“Does that mean Richie’s gonna become like _ you_?”

Eddie looks up. He’s left lifeline marks on Richie’s lenses. “I hope not,” he says wearily. His leg is bouncing uncontrollably. He feels antsy, and he doesn’t know why. “I feel sorry for _ you_, Trashmouth, my life’s got a lot of fuckin’ rules to navigate.”

There’s a rustling noise as Richie crosses Eddie’s ankles in the hammock.

The Losers turn to assess his reaction.

“Listen,” says Richie, swishing the zip on his fanny pack backwards and forwards, “I’m sixteen years old, and there’s nothing in my life you guys haven’t seen. You were there when my voice broke for six months straight, you were there when my dad found the nudey mags under my mattress last year, and you were there when I was still occasionally pissing my pants in first grade. I could trade with _ anyone _here and it’d turn out okay. I’m not worried. What’s left for Eddie to see, except for my monster dick?”

“I’d love to see some sensible fucking conduct, but we can’t all get what we want,” Eddie bites back.

“Well, we got a theme of opposites going,” Richie says. He sits up, and gestures a lazy finger between the two of them. “Maybe we can keep it up. I hope that I don’t win the lottery.”

“I hope my dad doesn’t finally redecorate my room,” says Bill.

Mike laughs. “I hope I don’t get superpowers...”

“I hope that Eddie’s morning wood is as difficult to deal with as mine is.”

Eddie balks. “Oh my god, if you fucking jerk me off I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands.”

“But aren’t you _ me _ now?” Richie asks. “Technically this--” he gestures to Eddie’s crotch obscenely-- “is mine now. Full control, baby.”

Bev fixes Eddie with a Look. “How do you feel now you’re going to have to strangle someone with your own face, Eddie?”

“Like I’m back in the eternal nightmare, Bev, _ thanks_.”

Stan removes a crude drawing or two from the clubhouse cork board, and pins up a fresh sheet of paper. “Maybe we should brainstorm how to get you two back where you belong,” he suggests, pulling a ballpoint pen from his shirt. “It’s like, a literal brainstorm, huh?”

Mike and Ben grin, crowding closer to start putting forwards suggestions. Eddie thinks he hears a _ let’s bash their heads together_! suggestion, and decides he doesn’t want to listen.

Unseen by the brainstormers, Bill moves to perch next to Eddie’s seated body on the hammock.

“Yuh-y-you okay, Richie?” he mumbles, beneath the undercurrent of ruckus. Eddie loves Bill; he always knows when to treat Richie with some tenderness.

It can hardly be _ his _ job right now, when Richie would have his own face staring back at him.

“I’m going outside,” Eddie mutters, pulling himself to his feet. “Need some air or something. Shit...”

He stumbles towards the ladder, picking his shoes up gingerly between the uneven floorboards. Except he’s forgotten how _high up_ he is now, in Richie’s six-foot-bullshit skin, and he smacks his head against one of the clubhouse beams.

“Mother_ fuck_!” he curses, holding Richie’s fringe against his forehead.

A firm hand appears at his elbow.

“I’ll come with you,” Bev says kindly, and lets him hoist himself into the sunlight first.

It’s cooler out here. Less cramped. Eddie feels like he can breathe for the first time all morning. He plants his ass down beyond the ceiling of the clubhouse and picks at the grass, thankful for the breeze against his face and the thickness of the specs on his face. Every sensation is overwhelming.

And his fucking _ leg _won’t stop goddamn bouncing.

“Rough day, huh?” Bev asks. She appears next to him easily, throwing her legs out into the sun and leaning back on his hands. She’s a pretty splotch of burgundy and fire against the grass of the Barrens.

“Like, don’t. You don’t know the half of it,” he snorts. “I called Richie’s mom ‘Mrs Tozier’ to her face over the breakfast table.”

Beverly smirks at that. “That was pretty stupid,” she remarks, and rifles in her pocket for her cigarettes. “You wanna share, Kaspbrak?”

“What?!” he replies, scandalised. “You know I don’t smoke, _ shit_, Bev.”

“You don’t,” she points out, placing a Winston between her lips, “but _ Richie _ does. You got a headache? Full of sighing and feeling distracted?”

“Yep,” Eddie says curtly. Of all the fucking things. “Great. This is fantastic. I’m gonna have to quit a smoking habit that isn’t even _ mine_, this is so _ stupid_.”

She looks at him expectantly. The lighter’s curled in one of her hands, with the other ready to cover the end of the cigarette against the wind.

Eddie sighs.

With a fatigue that can only be because of defeat, he lies flat on the ground and tilts his head towards the entrance of the clubhouse. “Hey, Trashmouth!” he yells, “are you cool if I smoke in your body?”

_ “You haven’t already?” _is the genuinely surprised reply.

Eddie sits back up with a considerable effort. “That’s a yes,” he says flatly.

She clicks the lighter. It doesn’t catch.

“You’re really gonna smoke?” says Bev.

“_Richie’s _ gonna smoke,” he replies. “Just light the cigarette before I change my mind, okay?”

“Aye aye, Edd-itchie,” she says, saluting, and lights it up.

“Jesus, don’t ever call me that again.”

“Gotta tell you apart somehow,” she shrugs, and puffs out a small cloud of smog. “I wonder why Tozbrak down there is being so mopey.”

“He is?” Eddie asks, surprised. “He seemed pretty cheery to me. He’s being a lazy shit, sure, but Richie not being a human hurricane is a relief, not a problem.”

Beverly peers up through her mouthful of tobacco. “Is it?” she asks.

He’s not very comfortable with that. Not at _ all_. Usually, Eddie can read Richie like a book, because he’s a predictable idiot after all these years. Sometimes he wants to talk about what’s bothering him, like, privately. Sometimes he wants everyone to overlook the reasons for his shitty behaviour. It used to be stuff like Bowers.

These days, it’s stuff like, _ hey, my brain doesn’t work and I’m never gonna get out of this town, are you afraid of that too? Tell me I’m not the only one_.

Beverly passes the cigarette, and Eddie takes it gingerly by the filter. “I don’t fucking know how to do this,” he grumbles. “Is there a trick or something?”

When she smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkle up. It makes Bev look so genuine and lovely. “Don’t breathe too deep and surprise yourself,” she says, knocking his shoulder, “and try not to cough too bad. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and cautiously puffs on the end.

He _ does _cough. But it passes quickly enough, and he even manages a second go without issue.

“Hey, you got it,” Bev grins, “not too bad for a beginner.”

“Richie’s not a beginner. I just don’t know how to do it like he does.”

“Yeah, well, it’s ruining his singing voice, so don’t sweat it. I’m sure he’ll give it up sometime,” she laughs. “Not that I ever get to hear it… Unless we’re smoking pot.”

“Me neither,” says Eddie. “I bet he would sing if we went to a party. If he sings high, maybe he’d sing drunk.”

She passes back the cigarette, and he has another go. “I think it’s all down to you now, Eddie,” she says gently. “Know what he was saying about ‘full control’ down there? What’s yours is his--”

“--and what’s his is mine,” Eddie realises. “Huh. I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“Goes both ways,” Bev shrugs.

“Don’t let Trashmouth hear you say that sentence,” he mutters, and Bev laughs and laughs, and they sit there until the cigarette is gone, and Eddie starts to feel slightly light-headed.

They spend a good twenty minutes outside, enjoying the quiet hum of conversation beneath them. Eventually, the rest of the Losers Club start to filter out of the ground like massive ants, one by one with their shitty ideas and their bickering:

“I still think the brain transplant one is taking it too far.”

“That’s why we gave it an asterisk, Ben,” Stan says patiently, “if you think I’m letting any of you guys near Eddie’s head with a hacksaw then you’re completely _ insane_.”

Beverly sits up with an air of amusement. “Ooh, what’s this about brain transplants?”

“Nothing. It has an _ asterisk_.”

Eddie closes his eyes against the sun. He’d really rather not move right now, and he definitely doesn’t want to have to deal with a solution to this problem - he kinda just wants to pretend it isn’t happening. When he can’t see, it’s like he forgets he’s in Richie’s body.

A blot of black falls over him.

“Spit spot, Master Edwin - there’s scientific experimentation for us to attend!”

“N’aw, fuck,” Eddie groans. He throws an arm over his face, and jars the fucking glasses _ again_. “Five more minutes of ignoring my life?”

“My life too, baby,” Richie says. Eddie cracks open his eyes, and there his own image stands - towering over him, hands on his hips, in Dolfin shorts and a decent amount of trouble. He’s never smiled that wicked smirk in the way that Richie moves his face. “Want a hand, Smokestack?”

“Please,” says Eddie, and accepts the assistance when Richie hauls him to his feet. “Jesus, I don’t know how you do that everyday. I feel like I weigh fuck-all nothing.”

Richie shakes out his fingers: “well, you don’t, so no problems there. The ol’ Tozier pounds and ounces are up to scratch.”

“And we’ll see if we can’t get them back where they belong,” beams Mike, slapping Eddie on the back. He starts pulling them in the direction of the Quarry. “Sorry in advance, Eddie.”

“Why?” asks Eddie instantly. “What’s on the list? Mike? _ Mike_, what’s on the list?”

* * *

The list is bad.

There was a brief moment of hope earlier on, when Ben gave him an optimistic thumbs up, but… The list is fucking terrible.

“Okay,” says Bev, clapping her hands. “Tozbrak Switcheroo is a-go. What are we trying first?”

“Well,” Eddie says, “straight away I wanna say that we’re not doing the brain transplant, the wishing, or the _ Prelude to a Kiss _ bullshit.”

“I liked that movie,” Bill mutters.

“Yeah,” says Richie loudly, “and I’m totally not doing the Friday the 13th thing, I can’t hold out that long-- wait, wait. We’re _ not _ doing the _ Prelude to a Kiss _ bullshit?”

Eddie rounds on him. “Of course not, dipshit, that involves kissing.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“Not in front of these motherfuckers,” he points out, jutting a thumb towards their friends. Stan discreetly puts a disposable camera back in his bag.

“Okay,” Richie concedes, “fair.”

Bev raises an eyebrow. “Why not wishing?”

“You think I haven’t been wishing all fucking morning?!” Eddie asks incredulously. “If that was gonna work, it would’ve done by now!”

“Also fair.”

“Shut up, Richie,” says Bev.

Ben starts counting on his fingers: “we haven’t eliminated anything that might’ve caused it. Neither of you, like, put on weird amulets? No necklaces or earrings or rings or anything?”

“No,” says Eddie, scandalised, as Richie says, “no, but an earring’s a great idea, huh.”

“Didn’t curse a god or anything?”

“I routinely shout about the guy,” Richie says proudly. “Eddie’s mom’ll tell you so.”

“Gross, dude, don’t say shit like that when you’re in my body! And do _ not _ fucking pierce my ears, I’m warning you. I’ll pierce _ you _\--”

“Ooh,” says Richie, and waggles his fingers gleefully.

Stan rolls his eyes so hard that it could’ve earned him a strike at the bowling alley.

“Well, there’s more,” Ben says, “there’s loads of stories about how people swapped bodies. You didn’t argue with each other yesterday? Like in that movie with Jodie Foster?”

“You mean _ F-F-Freaky Friday_,” Bill supplies.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I think it was a book, too.”

“Are you serious?” Richie says, sending Eddie’s eyebrows shooting into his hairline. “We argue _ every day_, dude, it’s kind of our thing! Our little switcheroo here would be a fuckin’ _ revolving door _ of an identity crisis.”

Ben glances at the others. Mike and Stan nod primly in unison, which is kind of hilarious.

“Okay, fine,” he says, “I’m out of ideas. Let’s just get to fixing it.”

“You mean _ trying _ to fix it,” says Bev, dusting off her hands. “I’ll go first--”

_ Crack. _

A white hot pain rips through Eddie’s temple as Bev knocks their heads together. Blinded, he stumbles backwards, tripping in Richie’s gargantuan shoes - man, the glasses _ really _ dug in there, huh.

“Ow! What the _ fuck_, Beverly?!” Richie yelps, holding Eddie’s forehead.

“Just testing,” she says, and grins. The little shrug really doesn’t make her look sorry in the slightest. In fact, Eddie spots her holding her hand out backwards, for Stan to catch in a sneaky low five.

“Did it work?”

“You tell me, Haystack,” Richie groans. “I don’t think _ either _bodies can see very well now, so I sure as hell can’t figure out who I am.”

Eddie thinks that not knowing who he might be is a fairly standard train of thought. But he doesn’t voice it out loud. “Any other bright ideas?” he asks. “From those of us who still have brain cells remaining?”

“That’s a real narrow pool,” Mike says sadly, and crosses _ bash heads together _ off the list. “Uh… The next one is the _ Prelude _ one--”

“I’m not being Meg Ryan, fuck that.”

“--and the one after that is _ waiting for a full moon_. Then _ wishing on a falling star_. Then _ waiting for Friday the 13th_.”

“There seems to be a _ fuckload _of waiting on this list!” Richie yells.

“Yeah, lemme see that,” says Eddie, yanking at the paper: “_electrocuting each other_? What the hell, absolutely not. And my mom will have a cow and a half if we _ cast a demonic ritual_.”

“We could figure out _ both doing laughing gas at the same time _ tomorrow,” Ben says, pointing, “that’s when the pharmacy is shut. We could break in.”

“Okay, yeah,” says Richie. “But _ finding a witch _ is gonna be harder if that doesn’t work. So’s _ downloading brains and re-uploading them into the right bodies_. And _ teleportation _ doesn’t exist yet, which is something I’m disappointed by every day of my life.”

Bill chews the inside of his mouth. “Well,” he says. “We could knock your heads together again, b-but harder...?”

Eddie looks around to assess everyone’s reactions. Mike is surreptitiously plucking blades of grass out of the floor; Stan leans back on his heels to peer over the edge of the Quarry cliff.

“Jesus Christ,” Richie says flatly. “Yeah, come on, then… Push us off the edge. Get over here, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” says Eddie. It’s through gritted teeth.

He walks over to the edge anyway.

* * *

Now he’s still in Richie’s body _ and _ he’s soaking wet, which is always fun. And by fun, Eddie means that he’s never experienced wanting to puke out of sheer delight before. _ Fuck _ this.

“Know what’s weird? Having a different ass.”

“For g-god’s sake, man,” says Bill.

They’re walking back into town, flanking each other by bike (with the exception of Bev, who’s riding on Mike’s shoulders for funsies). 

“I’m serious! Look at these buns. You could order Kaspbrak’s cute little tush from the drive-thru. _ I’d like a McAss with a side of fries, please--_”

Eddie erupts. _ “Stop talking about my ass!” _

Bill and Richie stop so abruptly that Mike almost walks clear into them. Ben _ does _ walk clear into them, banging his waist against Bill’s mudguard with the ring of a bell and a yelp. Bev wobbles precariously from her perch, putting a hand in Stan’s curls to steady herself.

“Yeesh, _ sorry_, Eddie Spaghetti--”

“How many fuckin’ times, don’t call me that,” he threatens. “Listen, you guys, thanks for the list and all, but I’m soaking wet and I’m tired and I wanna go home, and I feel even worse about it because I’m going back to Richie’s home and it’s so much… nicer? His mom’s making dinner at five and she invited me - well, not-me - to stay over, and I wanna head back and pretend all of this isn’t happening. I’d literally be crying right now, but Trashmouth’s face doesn’t wanna make any tears or some shit.”

Stan squints. “Anything else?”

He considers it, and adds, “I think Bev gave me a concussion.”

“Sorry, Eddie,” she winces. “It _ was _ in the name of science.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. All of the energy’s been drained from him in one go. “I don’t like being this tall. It _ sucks_. Richie, can we go back to yours now?”

Richie swoops in to throw an arm around his shoulders, except it doesn’t quite work from the shorter part of the duo. He settles for taking his body by the elbow instead. “Fine, sure, piss all over my stature and then ask me to chauffeur you home… See you later, guys. We’ll call you in the morning.”

They exchange subdued goodbyes, and Richie detaches himself enough that they can wheel their bikes side by side, down to the other side of town.

After a minute or so, Richie runs a hand through Eddie’s haircut so it stops falling in his eyes. “My mom and dad will probably let us eat in my room,” he says.

“They usually do. It’s cool of them.”

“I didn’t piss off Mrs K this morning,” he says, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not,” says Eddie. He is, just a little, but it’s not exactly at the top of his list of priorities right now. “I didn’t piss off your parents, either-- well, I called your mom ‘Mrs Tozier’, and I didn’t even see your dad.”

“It’s easy. Don’t stress, you already know it. My mom’s Maggie. My dad? Went.”

“Where did he go?” Eddie mumbles, and hates himself immediately.

Richie flashes him a delighted, incredulous grin. “You sound more like me every second, Eds,” he says, eyes sparkling, “that was a hardcore Tozier joke--”

“I _ know_,” Eddie groans.

He drags his feet noisily, the perfect picture of self-pity. Reduced to shitty puns and too-long limbs… _ Ugh. _

“Well,” Richie says, half-shrugging and making his steering wobble, “maybe we could, like, just hang out and see what happens. As us.”

“But we’re not ourselves,” Eddie says stupidly, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

He catches sight of the look on his own face and instantly feels mean - it’s an expression he’s familiar with concealing. _ Disappointment_. Richie looks _ hurt_, except it’s not even his features that are conveying it. Usually when Richie gets like this, his expression is carefully wiped clean, a blank slate that barely communicates any kind of vulnerability.

On Eddie’s face, he looks sad as _ shit_.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbles. His glasses are sliding down his nose again. “Sure we can hang out. I’m being a moron.”

“_Non _ chehnges zere, _ monsieur_,” Richie pipes up, appalling both in accent and attempted cover up. “It eez, ‘ow you say… _ Le _ Kaspbrak way.”

Eddie swings a foot onto Richie’s bike and pedals away.

(There are minimal protests. Richie takes forever to catch up because he’s laughing too hard to steer properly. It almost feels normal… in its own fucked up way, of course.)

* * *

Richie predictions turn out to be correct. His parents do let them take their food up to his room, and they even excuse them from the dishes.

“Thanks, Wen-- I mean, Mr Tozier,” Richie had grinned sheepishly, and Eddie had had to restrain himself from elbowing the dinner bowl clean out of his hands.

As soon as they’re in Richie’s room, he blockades the door. “Are you out of your mind?” he asks. “Serious question. You almost called your dad something I’d never say, and it _ still wasn’t even Dad._”

Richie collapses into his armchair. “I call my parents by their names all the time,” he says, and shovels a forkful of mashed potatoes into his face. His mouth drops open to cool it off without a second’s delay. Real nice. His gross, gritty mash-tongue is on full display.

“You’re so disgusting.”

He closes his mouth around the food - apparently a few quick _ hoo-ha! _ breaths had been enough to cool it off. “And now so are you,” he grins. “How does it feel to be me, Eds?”

“Feels like Derry bullshit again,” Eddie says moodily. He starts eating, but his appetite’s dropped off the face of the planet.

There’s a few blissful moments where the only sound is cutlery against china. 

Then, thickly, Richie says, “do you think it’s Clown stuff?”

“It’s rude to speak with your mouth full, asshole.”

“S’rude to call me an asshole,” he retorts, and treats Eddie to a vision of half-chewed corn.

Eddie recoils. “Jesus. And who’s to say? Ben doesn’t think it is… I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“At least the next full moon is tonight,” he says. Richie’s body has never eaten food so neatly - in fact, Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever made it through a meal they’ve had together without dropping or dripping residue into his lap. He’s really doing Trashmouth a favour with his table manners, here. “Full moon was on the list, right? That’s one more thing. And I bet we can look up meteor shower stuff.”

“Yeah,” Richie grins, “let’s set Stan on the NASA bullshit. It’ll be the best flock of anything he’s ever spotted.”

“Bet shooting stars aren’t in _ The Birdwatcher’s Digest_,” snorts Eddie.

They don’t talk about how the next Friday the 13th isn’t until November.

And the one after _ that _ isn’t until next August.

Well, Eddie imagines that if all else fails, they could drag themselves down into the sewers again and electrocute themselves right there in the greywater.

When Richie clinks his bowl against his windowsill and stretches, Eddie knows something’s up.

“Whaddaya wanna do, Eds?” he asks.

Sure… ‘Cos the guy who’s _ never _ out of shitty ideas just asked Eddie what he wanted to get up to.

“What’s _ with _ you today, man? You’ve always got something to do,” he asks. “I mean… I don’t always agree with your dumb plans, but you never _ run out_. And you _ definitely _never ask me.”

“I’m a changed man, Eddie, my love,” grins Richie, curling like a cat in the armchair. “A brain transplant will do that to a fella. Go on, what would _ you _do?”

“I’d go to the arcade and show everyone that someone with your face doesn’t have to be so shitty at _ Vendetta_.”

“Aw,” he says, “you’d still put my initials in if you won? That’s so sweet.”

“I try to be honest sometimes, Rich.”

“Shame you weren’t honest about me sucking at _ Vendetta_, though,” Richie smirks. “I’ll kick your ass tomorrow. Y’know, if you feel up to it.”

Eddie resists the childish urge to stick out his tongue. “With what cash, Trashmouth? Last I knew, you owed me six dollars from that stupid crane machine. The hell did you need that pin badge so bad for, anyway?”

“‘Cos it looked cool.” Richie leans forward, digging his elbows into his knees. Or Eddie’s elbows, to be exact - they’re less fuckin’ scraped up than Richie’s own ones are, that’s for sure. (The knees he can’t speak for.) “C’mon, Eds, you’re not thinking big enough. What would you tell Greta Keene, if you had my face?”

Eddie kicks his bowl with a bored toe. “That you desperately wanted to bang her.”

“Yowch. There’s only one woman for me--”

“Don’t you fuckin’ say it,” Eddie warns, pointing a serious index finger at his own face. “I could make you do _ anything_, y’know. You really seem to have forgotten about that.”

“Yeah, well, I could make _ you _ do anything, too--”

“Fuck _ off _ would you, though,” Eddie scoffs. “You haven’t tried any shit all day. I’ve been brainstorming plans, motherfucker, you said it yourself - I’m good at being you. It doesn’t even have to be to embarrass you, or anything. I could do stuff _ just for my own entertainment_.”

It hits him as he’s saying it. They’re in Richie’s room. He’s got Richie’s face…

And he also has Richie’s record collection at his disposal.

Eddie makes a beeline for the box under the bed where Richie stores his miscellaneous musical crap - it’s all the shit the rest of the Losers like that he doesn’t really listen to himself, but keeps around just for them. Eddie’s definitely got some excellent things in storage here, so he flips through them.

When he catches sight of the sleeve, Richie scrunches up Eddie’s face in outrage. It’s an amazing rendition of a Kaspbrak Scowl. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says.

“Dare what? I’m just putting on some Bonnie Tyler.”

“You’ve said countless times that I should learn to play this, you’re not fooling anyone,” Richie warns. He’s actually getting to his feet - to Eddie’s feet, padding across the floor in his pristine white socks. “Eds--”

“Can’t hear you,” says Eddie, grinning into the lid of the record player. “I’m focusing on Bonnie--”

“C’mon, don’t be a wet little shit, Eds,” Richie pleads. Eddie ignores him; Richie approaches and tugs on his elbow.

A small fight ensues.

“Fuck--”

“Careful with the needle!”

“I _ am _ being careful, numbnuts, you’re the one who’s pulling--”

The needle falls haphazardly into the track, and there’s _ instantaneous _wailing. Richie steps back, defeated, and Eddie proudly grins in complete triumph:

“Are you happy? Satisfied?” Richie asks. “‘Cos I’m clearly fuckin’ _ beside _ myself here, dude. You _ shit_.”

“I’m ecstatic,” grins Eddie, “I’m _ larger than life_, you could say.”

“Oh, god, no.”

_ “Somewhere after midnight,” _he starts, _ “in my wildest fantasy…” _

Richie collapses back into the chair, pulling his legs up and wrapping skinny arms which don’t fit him around the fanny pack. He looks like someone just told him that summer vacation was cancelled this year.

But Eddie can’t bring himself to feel too bad, because he’s wanted to hear Trashmouth sing again for literal _ years_. He’d been wondering if it was even possible for him to do it in a borrowed body, but it turns out that talent sticks. _ “Somewhere just beyond my reach, there's someone reaching-ba-ack-for-meeee,” _he belts.

Richie’s voice is scratchy and rich with tone, in a way that fits Bonnie Tyler _ perfectly. _ He can feel the changes in the notes he’s singing, stepping up and down in his throat. It’s like they’ve been coded into Richie’s vocal cords, and Eddie’s just picking out the right sounds from what’s been marked out already.

Huh. Richie’s mouthing along.

_ “I’m gonna need a supermaaan to sweep me off my--” _

“I’ll sweep you off your feet, alright, you smug shit,” Richie suddenly says, grinning wickedly, and before Eddie knows it he’s been tackled onto the mattress, the back of his knees knocked out in some kind of martial arts move. Richie starts to press Eddie’s face into the pillow, actually attempting to wrestle him to a standstill. Eddie’s stopped singing, at least - but only because he’s laughing too hard, heaving out the squeaky pitches of a real Trashmouth Laugh. It’s so hilariously bizarre to hear his own uncontrollable hysterics, too, coming from Richie’s identical reaction, that they end up getting caught in a feedback loop of unstoppable idiocy.

Richie half-heartedly pushes him on the floor. Eddie holds on by the other boy’s shoulder seams. They both come crashing down on the floorboards, barely caring through the shrieking and stitches, through the wide, wide smiles.

After a brief scuffle - Eddie knees Richie in the side, before remembering that he’s basically attacking _ himself _ \- the bedroom door swings open, and Maggie Tozier stands with her hands on her hips in the light.

“What in the sweet hell do you two think you’re doing, exactly?” she asks, her lips twitching. “Making all of this noise, right above my sitting room ceiling?”

They freeze. Still tangled together, in the midst of teenage battle.

Eddie catches a flash of panic across his own body’s face; Richie’s throwing him a startled expression. Time to bust out the Trashmouth impression, apparently.

He twists to look at Maggie, upside down and five feet away from eye level. “Well, Ma,” he starts carefully, “y’see, up where the mountains meet _ the heavens above…_”

“Oh, no,” says Richie, who might not be doing his Eddie impression.

_ “Out where the lightning spliiiiiits the seaaaaa!!” _Eddie yells, making Richie’s voice crack on the high note. Richie scrambles to clamp a hand over his mouth, and Eddie fights him off.

Maggie Tozier’s laughter is the best thing ever.

“Oh, to have a daughter,” she laments jokingly, and steps back when a stray leg flails her way. “Know what, you strange boys? I’m just gonna close the door and leave you to it. Don’t kill your friend, Richie, hon.”

“He’s gonna kill _ me_,” they yell in unison, and go right back to elbowing each other for dominance.

They last a minute more after the door clicks shut, before Richie buries his face into Eddie’s chest. It’s really odd to have his own hair tickling his nose.

“Okay,” Richie pants, still laughing at random intervals, “okay. I’m done. I call truce.”

Eddie stills.

“You call truce?”

“Yeah. Truce, uncle, whatever,” Richie grins, sitting back on his heels and awkwardly half-straddling his own lanky body. “You stopped singing with my voice, and that’s all that matters.”

“You never call truce,” Eddie says suspiciously. He props himself up on his elbows. Richie wobbles from where he’s perched atop his own thighs. “Remember that battle you had against Bev and Mike, where you ended up getting rug burn over your whole back? You can’t even _ spell _‘uncle’.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie says, with an abrupt shrug of embarrassment. The mood’s unexpectedly shifted. “It’s not me I’m saying it for, is it?”

He clambers off, digging his knees into Eddie’s thighs as he shifts his weight, and returns to the chair he was slumped in before. Eddie’s still lying on the ground, trying to figure out precisely _ what _just happened.

“Wait,” he says. “Are you _ babying _ me?”

“No,” says Richie.

“You fucking are!” Eddie says, jolting upright and crossing his legs furiously. “I know everyone else is usually full of fragile Eddie-be-careful warnings, but I didn’t think _ you’d _ start doing it, too. What is it? You can’t keep an eye on me from your _ own _ damn self, so you’re keeping safe distance from inside my own freaking body? You _ asshole_. I wondered why you’ve been so quiet all day--”

“Eds, it’s not like that,” Richie protests.

“How is it like, then?!”

He can feel the dig of his eyebrows above the bridge of his unfamiliar nose, pressing hard against the frames of Richie’s glasses. Of all the fucking ways to treat him, Richie just _ had _ to go with the Sonia Kaspbrak Method. What a surefire way to piss him off.

Except Richie doesn’t look that happy about it, either.

He draws his feet up from the floor and into the seat of the chair, hugging Eddie’s bruising shins, and tucks his chin inbetween his knees. Eddie’s never realised how many freckles are on his own face.

“Usually,” Richie mumbles, “usually it’s like, people telling _ you _ to be careful with yourself. But this is me. Being careful with you. It’s not the same.”

Eddie blinks. “You realise you’re talking absolute nonsense, right?”

“No,” he cringes, “like… You didn’t just get my face and height and whatever, did you? You also got my itch for smokes, and my energy and stuff. And_ I _ didn’t just get your short ass, or your high pitched voice. I got your weirdly cold feet, and your 20/20 vision, and… And your asthma.”

He won’t look at him. His attention is on a room that’s his and isn’t his at the same time; in the lapse in conversation, Eddie takes the opportunity to pluck Richie’s glasses from his face and give them a thorough wipe on his shirt hem.

Eventually, Richie says something that sounds like, “those things have never been so clean, man.”

“You’re not gonna give me an asthma attack, Trashmouth,” Eddie says firmly. He replaces the specs and watches his own embarrassed face slot into place, like the focus on a viewfinder. It’s very trying, figuring out what’s going on exactly. “Is that what you’ve been worried about? Jesus Christ, dude.”

“You say I won’t,” Richie says, “but what if I do? And I don’t know how to deal with it, because I’m not actually _ you_? What if this is the wheezing fit that makes you keel over and it’s all my fault, because I’m dicking around somewhere I shouldn’t be? I’ve been trying to keep calm all fuckin’ _ day_, dude.”

He shuts his mouth with a tired _ click _ of teeth, and nestles his face right back into his knees again.

Eddie stands up.

“You’re not gonna do that,” he says quietly. “That’s not gonna happen. Promise.”

“You don’t know.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says, and balances Richie’s body’s stupid, bony ass on the arm of the chair. “Think about how many times you’ve helped me with an attack. You know what to do. You know the signs. Even if my body _ did _ decide to freak out, you’d be fine, moron.”

He juts one of Richie’s massively square hands out until it meets hair, bringing his own head down against one of Richie’s thighs.

Richie sighs.

“I’m just trying to be careful,” he mumbles. “I’m a guest or visitor or whatever. Sit up straight, say please and thank you, wipe your fuckin’ feet on the way in. That kinda crap.”

Eddie strokes a thumb through his own crown, and Richie presses a cheekbone into the skin of his body’s thigh; it’s too affectionate, but somehow it’s exactly what both of them need.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” Eddie finally says.

“No problemo… Edd-itchie.”

“I _ knew _Bev had mentioned that to you,” he says, shoving the weight from his leg. Richie starts to shake with poorly-contained laughter. “You’re both irritating as hell, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah. You love me, though,” he grins.

“That doesn’t work on me when it’s _ my _face you’re saying it from, dipshit,” Eddie says, and jabs at his own puppy eyes and button nose. “Try again when we’re fixed up, and maybe I’ll concede my burning hatred.”

“Pffft,” splutters Richie. “Fine. Be that way.”

* * *

Eddie, much to Richie’s dismay, insists on going downstairs to help Maggie with the dishes - and he finds, much to his _ own _ dismay, that being Richie is starting to become a lot more fun. He’s got the excuse of a borrowed face to use when he whips the drying up towel at his own body’s ass, and Richie’s yelp makes him double over laughing in a completely different way than he’s ever experienced.

This could be forever. It’s _ draining_. Hilarious and irritating, and gruelling, and confusing and intimate and _ hellish_.

They bother with the separate sheets at first - “I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor in your own room,” Eddie had argued, “even if you are in my body,” - but then they switch out from using the bathroom. And after Richie’s finished changing and brushing his teeth, under threats of violence, they don’t bother at all.

So Eddie shuts off the lights and slips under the covers.

They lie on their backs next to each other; the bed’s a little too small, but it’s comfortable enough for them not to be heaped on top of one another. Now _ that _ would be weird, even without the Tozbrak Switcheroo bullshit. And even with it - well, Eddie’s never paid so much attention to the sound of his own breathing before.

It’s just air. Oxygen and carbon dioxide, swapping back and forth. He doesn’t know why he feels territorial over it, but he does.

“You’ve brushed back my hair,” Richie notes, without looking at him.

“Well, yeah,” says Eddie, “it was getting in my eyes. What, you worried I’m cramping your style? Ruining your chances of a stint on the runway?”

“No,” Richie mumbles, “you just… look more like you.”

He wriggles nervously. Having his own forehead on show seems to have unnerved him, and Eddie can’t figure out why.

“Kept your specs on, though, four-eyes. Still think I look like me?”

He waggles his eyebrows up and down, in the best impression of Richie he can manage, and it actually startles a laugh in response.

“Jeez,” says Richie, “I dunno what you think you’re talking about, shorthouse, I definitely can’t look like _ me _ when the good folk of Derry have to peer _ down_.”

Eddie snorts. “Shut up, man,” he grins, and gives Richie a gentle shove, and then bundles the covers up comfortably beneath his chin. It feels safe, here, cool and breathable in the way only a familiar bed can be.

Richie seems to be having similar thoughts. “You know what?” he asks. “I’m super glad I’m here. Totally wigged out when I woke up this morning… Don’t tell the others.”

“Nah, I won’t,” Eddie promises. There are some things worth teasing Richie for; this one probably isn’t on the list. “What was the first thing you did? When you realised you were in my body?”

He watches Richie wrinkle his nose. It’s odd to see him pause - odder still that the pause is to consider what he says next.

“Do you remember when we first went into the Neibolt house, and there was that missing poster with me on it?”

Eddie nods a swishing sound into his pillowcase. He doesn’t like to remember it - the preface to his broken arm, the nudges that felt like his own death creeping up on him, and how that had felt like Richie’s turn, the first instance that had smacked them all in the face with cold terror.

He shivers with just the memory. It goes unnoticed.

“I started freaking out,” Richie’s saying, “started freaking out _ bad_, I’d never been that scared for something in my life. Either I was _ already _ missing, or I’d been told the future, like a big old threat that was hanging right in front’a me, and I couldn’t stop _ seeing _it--”

“But you didn’t go missing,” says Eddie. “You’re not missing, Rich. You’ve been here the whole time, pissing off everyone in sight, and making inappropriate STD references in front of my mother. Yeah? I promise.”

“I know,” Richie says awkwardly. “Like, I hope I know… But I was losing my shit, and Bill was trying to calm me down, and I looked at _ you_.”

Oh.

“And you had your hands over your mouth. Not in the inhaler way - in the _ shock _ way, like girls on TV do when something bad happens. And your eyes were big, and your eyebrows were doing this weird, sad, twitchy-upwards thing, and when you noticed I could see your reaction I swear you stared right into my fucking _ soul_, dude.”

Eddie blanches. “Richie,” he blurts out.

“I always wondered what you were thinking right then,” he continues, “always wondered what your emotion was. Once I’d seen it, I couldn’t stop looking at you for it… Bill was calling my name but I couldn’t rip my eyes away, not when it was like we were really seeing each other all of a sudden. It felt like a conversation we weren’t having out loud, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks; he remembers, alright, and he briefly thinks of Bill, relegated to the sidelines, as the two of them had shared a private _ oh shit _ moment.

“I wanted to make that face,” mumbles Richie. “See if I could figure out what you were feeling. Didn’t work, though.”

“You are _ such _ an ignoramus,” Eddie says, swatting at what he thinks to be a shoulder. “You coulda just _ asked me_, you dipshit, I’ve been here all this time too.”

“I know,” he says. Eddie doesn’t so much as perceive his shrug as _ feel _ it. “I just… If you were still looking at me, I was still there. Y’know?”

Eddie knows. God, he knows it all too well - the fear that he couldn’t believe his eyes, not even for a second, but the sheer faith in Richie’s image in front of him meaning that _ no, no, he can’t be missing, because I’d feel it, I’d just _ _ know__, and this isn’t it. _

He’s struck with a sudden bravery, and fumbles under the covers for Richie’s hand. Clutching it hard, between both of his own, he draws their linked hands between their chests, to sit between their beating, present hearts.

“You’re still here,” he says; firmly, softly, certainly.

Richie exhales relief, and holds fast. Tension vacates the bed entirely.

It’s easier, in the dark. Later now, than when they’d crept upstairs, and the last dregs of the day have long since drained away. Just two boys and the moon, now. Through the bedroom’s thin curtains, Eddie can see the outline of Richie’s hair; technically it’s his _ own _ hair, but the blue midnight does a real good job of masking their images. He’s not sure where he begins and Trashmouth ends.

Then again, it’s always been like that.

He pulls Richie’s glasses from his face, folds them carefully, and discards them on the nightstand. There’s no point now that the sun’s gone down entirely; the world is blurry to the both of them. They’re on equal footing again.

“When I woke up,” he murmurs, answering in return, “I didn’t even start to worry about where I was. Felt right, y’know? Not _ where _ I was, just _ who _ I was. Not a lot of difference from any other day, to be honest, except… Well, I couldn’t see for _ shit_.”

Richie snort-laughs.

“Like, I panicked,” Eddie continues. “Sure I panicked. But it was actually so much easier, with your face… Can you imagine if I’d have been someone else?! _ Waaayyy _scarier, dude, that would have been Not Okay--”

“That’s so stupid,” laughs Richie, trying to keep quiet. “It’s _ my _ face, dude, _ I’m _ scared every day I wake up with it.”

Eddie’s borrowed heart thumps in its ribcage. “Don’t be a moron,” he smiles, kicking cold feet out at warm legs. “That’s the face that saved my ass in Neibolt on the same freaking day. Remember? You told me to keep looking at you, and you were there the whole time - Bill had bigger fish to fry, and everything hurt. And you stayed.”

“‘Course I did,” Richie says. He sounds like he’s smiling - it’s hard to tell. “You coulda measured the angle of your forearm with a goddamn _ protractor_, Eddie Spaghetti, that was the gnarliest shit I ever saw in my life--”

“Oh my god, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Richie says, fighting back against Eddie’s cold feet until their legs are suitably tangled up, “no, you don’t. And you _ can’t_, if you hate me too hard then you might lose track of me! I could wonder anywhere in this little body of yours, I could.”

Eddie makes an East Coast-sounding _ pfffth _ noise by way of dismissal. “_Little_. You’re such a dick.”

It’s too late when he realises how close together they are - and it’s all Eddie’s fault. Somehow during their footsie scuffle, he’d tipped his head onto Richie’s shoulder, and now the body heat between them is warm and so, _ so _reassuring, like their souls are doing their best to switch around, despite the barriers between them.

_ So freaked I’m calm, _ Richie had said this morning.

But Eddie’s pretty sure that freaked-calm isn’t supposed to feel this _ okay_.

A deep breath moves the covers between them, and the air’s cooler for it. It wasn’t Eddie who inhaled. He’s fairly certain he’s stopped breathing altogether.

“Eds?”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

He feels Richie draw his elbows into his sides protectively. “If we were ourselves,” he murmurs, “would you wanna kiss right now?”

Something in Eddie’s middle lurches, pleasantly and nervously.

“We are ourselves,” he murmurs back.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

It’s almost pitch black, but he spots the spit sheen on his front teeth when Richie worries at his bottom lip - at _ Eddie’s _bottom lip, fuck, that asshole better have been using chapstick.

“So, like,” Richie starts, shifting awkwardly, “did you mean, _ yeah, you know what I mean_, or _ yeah, you’d wanna kiss right now _\--?”

“Close your eyes, Rich.”

“Oh,” he says, “why?”

It takes everything Eddie has not to huff out a sigh. “Because I’m gonna kiss you,” he says patiently, “and if you’re gonna be weird about me having your face, then you should just try not to see it. It’ll still be me and you kissing, right?”

“Right,” says Richie, sounding vaguely dazed, “right, okay, I can’t really see you anyway, but yeah… Yeah. Are you _ sure_, though?”

“Close your fuckin’ eyes, dipshit,” Eddie says. He doesn’t mean it in an asshole way - it’s more fond exasperation, and a disbelieving shake of his head, before he scoots over and smiles against Richie’s mouth.

Yeah. Better to keep his eyes closed.

He feels Richie tense up again, but he thinks that not having the glasses on is a huge help - without the plastic pushing against them, like he’d always wondered if it would, there’s no way of telling who might be wearing them usually. Richie and Eddie are simply tangled knees and cold noses, brushing against freckly cheekbones - and he can’t see, neither of them can, but in his mind’s eye Eddie can picture Richie’s freckles without fault.

The bottom row of his teeth drag awkwardly against the inside of Richie’s top lip. He’s lying down too high for their kiss. The angle’s off.

So he breaks them apart.

“Oh,” breathes Richie, “bad? Was that--”

“Quit whining,” Eddie says, already scooching down the mattress some more, “I’m just making it more comfortable. I don’t really wanna be making out with your nose.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, and Eddie can practically hear that fucking grin in the flesh.

“C’mere--”

“You taste like toothpaste,” Richie mumbles, and then he doesn’t finish the thought, because they’re kissing all over again. Eddie should fucking think that he tastes like toothpaste - he spent enough time scrubbing the taste of smoke from between his molars. It’s strangely pleasant to find the same minty taste clinging to Richie’s mouth, too. The new angle means they’re actually able to meet each other properly, and Richie’s mouth is hot in a lazy way, and Eddie didn’t know kissing could be this _ nice_. It’s dizzying. Crashing from the bed to the floor is a distinct possibility, he’s gotta be honest.

He licks Richie’s bottom lip tentatively, and doesn’t stop the giggle that rises up when he receives a startled jolt in response.

“Damn, Eds, warn a guy,” Richie laughs back against him, muffled and delighted and definitely ready for more, because his right hand, the one on the outside of the covers, wanders up Eddie’s shoulder. Fingers splay around the arch of his neck, languid and lukewarm.

“Sorry,” Eddie says. He’s not sorry at all; he interrupts his own train of thought with the press of another easy kiss. “Hey, Richie? I’m gonna kiss you with tongue now, if that’s alright with your fuckin’ highness--”

“Oh, _ hell _ yes,” he whispers, dragging Eddie even closer. “Best sentence you’ve ever-- ever said to me-- this is _ so _ worth a concussion, dude--”

It is, it is, it is - not an opinion, but a stone cold _ fact_.

Eddie laughs again. The hum of it buzzes brightly against their lips; almost as glitteringly stark as the _ zing _ of light that streaks beneath the full moon, at that very moment, when a piece of far-flung space debris decides to tour the Earth’s atmosphere.

The two of them would probably have understood what it felt like, to burn up in pursuit of tourism. Unfortunately - or maybe otherwise - they were too distracted to separate one sensation from another.

* * *

Morning comes, clear as day.

...Like, literally. The glasses are rendered completely unnecessary.

Richie’s bedsheets are still faded, faintly smoky, and Batman-adorned, but when Eddie wakes up he’s entirely himself again - perfect vision, predictable cowlick, and wedged firmly between the wall and the mattress.

(It’s a bed made for one person. Whatcha gonna do.)

“Richie,” he hisses, shaking his shoulders, “wake the fuck up, dickhead, we’re back to normal--”

“Yo, what...?” he yawns, and stretches out his limbs until something crunches and clicks with the pressure. “We’re what?”

“Back in our own bodies!” Eddie says, and gives him an encouraging push towards the edge. “Ha! Take back your smoking habit, you disgusting motherfucker. I’ve never been so glad to be asthmatic in my _ life_.”

Richie’s eyes snap open - consciousness seems to have descended on him abruptly, like a cartoon piano, and he throws off the covers to launch himself at his mirror. “Holy shit!” he grins. Big hands muss up his hair, the long hair that fully belongs to him - “I’m _ me! _ I can fuckin’ _ breathe _ properly. This is awesome. I’m tall again!”

Eddie shuffles into the heated space in the bed, and forces himself to sit up. “You’re not _ that _ much taller than me, don’t be a dick about it.”

“Oh, Eddie, baby, those extra inches make all the difference. _ If _ you know what I mean… Oh, man. I’m so happy right now. I wonder if my dad is making pancakes this morning, that would be so awesome--”

Eddie swings his legs over the side of the frame and wipes sleep from his eyes. Richie’s rambling, waving animatedly as he talks through the sheer relief of being back where he belongs. Even though he’s just in a ratty old faded t-shirt, and ridiculous boxer shorts, and even though his knees and elbows are still scabbed over something fierce, Eddie can’t tear his eyes away. Richie’s his own person with his own stupid mass of hair and his own squinty, toothy smiles without his specs on.

“You look like you’re about to actually jump for freaking joy, Trashmouth.”

“Well yeah! We’re back to normal,” he beams, and seizes Eddie’s hands. “We’re back to normal, we’re back to ourselves, we’re--”

He trails off.

“What?” Eddie asks, face falling.

“Uh,” Richie says intelligently, “we’re gonna have to explain to the others what might’ve happened.”

Ah.

“Like… the Meg Ryan option,” he adds.

Richie’s still holding his hands. Yeah, that prospect might present a problem.

“When do you think it happened?”

“I have no idea,” he replies truthfully. It’s definitely jarring, because he has a suspicion both of them were expecting to feel it when they traded back. But neither of them did, apparently. Any time between turning off the lights and waking up to the sun was fair game.

Richie, as though he’s reading his mind, narrows his eyes at the daylight leaking through the curtains.

“Well… Full moon last night,” Eddie puts forward.

“And meteor showers and stuff,” Richie agrees, turning back to study him. “It was on the list… Could’ve been anything.”

There’s a beat, before both of their faces split into a grin.

“The Losers don’t need to know that it might have been magic morning breath, huh?” asks Eddie.

“What? Morning breath? But we haven’t-- oh,” says Richie, and grins even wider, as Eddie pulls himself up using the other’s grip for leverage and sneaks a quick one against the corner of his mouth.

Things swap and change all the time, right? Like today’s plans, for instance. Instead of breaking into the pharmacy to steal laughing gas - which he still might have to dissuade Richie from - Eddie was planning on heading to the arcade, kicking Richie’s ass at _ Vendetta_, and maybe ending a _ very _discreet date with a visit to the ice cream parlour. And he’d pay. Even though Richie still owed him six dollars for the crane machine.

Maybe they’d invite the others. Maybe they wouldn’t. It’s not like their friends needed the whole story _ right away… _

Yeah. Could’ve been anything.

**Author's Note:**

> The record player song was 'Holding Out For a Hero' by Bonnie Tyler. It'll change your life if you haven't already heard it (I won't judge if that's the case).
> 
> I'm on tumblr @futureboy-ao3! Come say hi.
> 
> And as always, ta for reading, folks. Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated. ☺


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